Summer grumbled, “More questions, Agent Vasil?”

I made sure the door was shut behind us.

“Yes,” Darius said.

“I didn’t know Wayde all that well. Unless you’re hoping to learn his opinion on Aztec religious rites, I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“My questions aren’t about Wayde.”

Summer stopped typing and looked up. Darius was watching him with what I was starting to think of as his “inquisition stare.” When Summer saw it, he realized this was serious. He shut the lid to his laptop, crossed his arms, and waited.

Darius said, “Two days ago, the fake Egyptian scroll was stolen from Wayde’s house.”

“Oh?” Summer sounded indifferent.

“Can you think of why anyone would want to steal a fake scroll?”

“No.”

“Not a single idea?”

“None at all, Agent. The thing’s worthless.”

“Miss Cole wondered if it was to protect Wayde.”

“Wayde’s dead. There’s not much point in protecting him.”

“But what if it was about protecting the person who originally owned it?”

“Why would they need protection?”

“Because archaeologists and anthropologists aren’t supposed to buy artifacts without the proper paperwork. As the son of a prominent archaeologist, I thought you would have known that. Since the scroll was fake, even if the person who bought it thought it was real, it couldn’t have had paperwork.”

Summer smirked. “Do you know what the punishment is for buying a fake scroll? A slap on the wrist.”

“Do you know what the punishment is for smuggling an undeclared artifact into the country?”

The smirk vanished.

Darius said, “More than a slap on the wrist, I think.”

“What makes you think it was smuggled in?” Summer asked. “For all you know, someone’s great-grandfather bought it in Cairo, Illinois.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been worth stealing. But the papyrus was real, and the Late Egyptian script was accurate, even if the scroll, as a whole, was supposed to be older than it was. I think it would be easier to get something like that in Egypt—but maybe you could tell me.”

There was a short silence.

“Were you ever in Egypt, Mr. Summer?”

“I was.”

“Would it be easier to find something like that over there?”

Louis returned Darius’s stare with one of his own. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I can imagine their frustration. They must have smuggled in the scroll, hoping to make a decent profit, but it turned out to be fake. All that risk for nothing. Of course they’d want to get rid of it. If it was ever found in their possession, there would be some awkward questions about how they got it. But then Wayde was killed, and some nosy FBI agent was looking around for counterfeit artifacts.”

The two men watched each other, their faces, impassive. World championship poker games had more animation.

“It’s easy to see why they’d panic,” Darius said.

Suspicion had been churning through my sleep deprived brain for a while, but that was the moment I finally finished connecting the dots. My eyes did a swift once-over Summer to calculate his height, his weight, and about how fast he could run.

“You kicked me!” I yelled.

Louis scratched his forehead, then looked at me.

“You jerk! That hurt.” I moved away from the door. “I’m going to have a scar all down my leg because of you!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Summer said.

I pointed at him. “You owe me sixty bucks for a new pair of jeans.”

“Emerra,” Darius said.

I stepped back, folded my arms, and glared.

The count said, “Would you care to comment, Mr. Summer?”

“On what? Your random theories or your assistant’s hysterical accusations?”

“I’m inviting you to tell me anything you want to.”

“I think you might be better off without your assistant.”

I flushed. A ringing sound rose in my ears like a tide, and I pressed my fingers into my arms so hard, the skin around them turned white.

Summer went on, “I also think that what you’re doing isn’t proper procedure. If you think I’ve done something, try to find some evidence and come back with a warrant. Otherwise, I’m not interested in talking to you.”

“Under normal circumstances, that would be exactly what I’d do,” Darius said, “but this isn’t a normal case. This is a murder investigation, and I think there’s a chance you didn’t kill Trevon Wayde.”

Louis Summer paled. A few seconds were strangled for as much silence as could be wrung from them, then he said, “The scroll had nothing to do with Professor Wayde’s murder.”

“Do you know that?”

“It was fake! No one would kill a man over a fake scroll.”

“What’s your current occupation?”

“I’m a part-time construction worker.”

“Builder?”

“Demolition and cleaning.”

“So it’d be normal for you to drive around with a crowbar in your trunk?”

Summer’s mouth slammed shut. He pressed his lips together.

“Did you steal the scroll from Wayde’s study?” Darius asked.

Summer opened his laptop. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Do you still have the scroll, Mr. Summer?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

The count sighed. Then he walked around the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat down so he was almost knee to knee with Summer. He put his elbows on his legs and leaned forward.

“Mr. Summer, someone was willing to shoot Professor Wayde in the chest, and I have reason to suspect that the scroll is far more important than you know.”

“It wasn’t.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re right. If I was able to figure out that you were the one who stole the scroll, then the murderer will be able to figure it out too.”

Summer never looked away from his screen. “Good day, Agent Vasil.”

Count Vasil waited for another second, then stood up and came toward me. He put a hand on my arm and motioned to the door.

When we were out in the hall, I said, “Did he kill Wayde?”

“I can’t say for certain, but I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because, on the night Wayde died, the scroll was left there. Either it wasn’t involved in the murder, therefore Summer wasn’t involved in the murder, or the murderer didn’t want us to know it was involved. If that was the case, then Summer wouldn’t have stolen it.”

“But he did steal the scroll?”

“I think he did.”

“You don’t know?”

“I have no proof.”

“So, what? We just walk away?”

“For now. I have to talk to Detective Moran anyway—”

“Why?”

“Because Miranda St. John lied to him.”

“She didn’t kill her uncle!”

“Emerra—”

“Why don’t you call her and ask her what’s going on?”

“I prefer to interrogate people in person, no matter how short the interview.”

“So you can tell if they’re lying?”

Vasil let out another sigh, “Emerra, if it was that easy, we wouldn’t be struggling so much with this case.”